


All the Things You Are

by shatteredwriters



Series: The More Loving One [1]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Am I Really Writing New MASH Fics in 2020?, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual B. J. Hunnicutt, Bisexual Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Bisexuality, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Loves B. J. Hunnicutt, Everyone Loves Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Piercintyre, M/M, Pre-Relationship, References to MASH (TV), hopping on the hunnihawk train, i am so here for the hunnihawk ship it makes my heart happy, not sure how long this will be, this idea just would not leave me alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25720894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredwriters/pseuds/shatteredwriters
Summary: "I don't cover up this mustache for nobody, fella."B.J. Hunnicutt decided one day to grow a mustache. But do we really know why?Featuring some drunken Hawkeye shenanigans, a confession or two, and an emotional realization.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Series: The More Loving One [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904914
Comments: 15
Kudos: 59





	1. Promised Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers! So excited about this fic. Not sure where it's going, how long it's going to be, or really anything more than what I've written so far lol. BUT. I have officially jumped on the Hunnihawk train, so buckle up and get ready ya'll. This is pre any sort of established relationship, firmly in the realm of a slow burn, flirty fic. But anywho I hope you guys like it! 
> 
> Tumblr Prompt: “You’re really drunk right now. I don’t think you’re going to remember this.”
> 
> Special thanks to icamisawibored for supporting me and encouraging me to write this random idea, and to TacosAreTasty33 for the beta!

“Aww Beeeeej, the night is young! There’s still so much to do! People to go, places to see! Whoooops, reverse those!”

B.J. rolled his eyes and pulled Hawkeye’s arm a little tighter over his shoulder as the drunken doctor dissolved into hysterics. Hawkeye had decided that tonight was a great night to drink himself into oblivion (it was just another typical Thursday in Korea after all). With the never-ending stream of liquor that he’d poured down his throat, matching three separate sergeants shot for shot, it was a miracle the man was upright and standing of his own volition. B.J. had to give him credit for that.

“Sorry, sweetie, you’ve got school tomorrow. You need your beauty sleep,” B.J. quipped, intently focused on not tripping himself or his bunkmate, who was deciding to do a wonderful impersonation of a rag doll at the moment. Not tripping was easier said than done, however. Hawkeye was not a heavy load to tote; even soaking wet, carrying him wouldn’t put a strain on B.J. one bit. But at this stage of drunkenness, and B.J. was well versed in _all_ stages of Hawkeye’s drunken personalities, Hawkeye Pierce lost all control of his limbs. Any semblance of coordination went blissfully out the window, so that the man B.J. was lugging back towards their tent was tripping, shuffling, dancing, kicking, swaying, and jumping, all at the same time, and with all the grace of what B.J. would charitably label a newborn foal.

Straining to keep Hawkeye from twirling away from him to some unheard tune, B.J. picked up his pace a little because the Swamp had miraculously appeared in view. The more sober surgeon sent a quiet prayer up for this night to be over soon. Just a few more feet to go and he’d have his charge deposited on his own cot, and B.J. could finally, _finally_ catch up on the sleep he’d been dreaming about the last few hours.

That was the idea anyways. But what well intentioned plan ever survived the cataclysmic touch of the mischievous, salt-and-pepper headed satire savant with a knack for insane wit and shameless flirtations?

Hawkeye, who had initially pouted at B.J.’s words, had changed comically to now sport a toothy grin. That star dazzling, knock-you-off-your-feet-in-two-seconds-flat-and-have your-pants-dropping-a-moment-later, kind of smile.

“ _Beeeauuuty sleep_? Well _yoooou’re_ a knockout, Beej, and my hotel room’s right ahead, soooo what do you say soldier?” Hawkeye drawled, shooting B.J. an exaggerated, provocative wink. 

All B.J. could do was chuckle. The easy, quippy banter that flew off Hawkeye’s tongue always managed to keep him on his toes, as did his insatiable ability to flirt with _anything_ with a pulse. Absolutely incorrigible.

Without warning, the intoxicated man wrestled his arm away from B.J.’s solidifying presence. Hawkeye staggered drunkenly away, splayed his arms out and attempted a solo act of the jitterbug. It was not gracefully executed. On the best of days Hawkeye had a decent grasp of rhythm, but with his current blood alcohol level, the dance came out looking more like a staggered shuffle.

When the whole world tilted and spun in his vision, the drunk doctor decided _maybe_ dancing wasn’t his best decision. Shifting gears, he batted his blue, somewhat glassy eyes at B.J., and, holding a pretend microphone, began to croon in a sultry voice.

_“Youuu arrreee, the promised kiss of spring tiiiiimeee!”_

The tipsy singing drew mostly annoyed but some amused stares from the nurses and soldiers that happened to be walking near the pair. Hawkeye was in full entertainment mode, a common occurrence amidst his drunken behaviors. It was a familiar song and dance routine that the surgeon slipped into effortlessly; laughter and jokes and pretending were simpler than looking too closely at terrifying, blood-stained, capital “R” Reality.

_“That makesss the lonely winter ssssseeem loooongggg!”_

Hawkeye swayed dangerously on his feet, a goofy grin on his face. B.J. rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics, wondering how the man still had the energy for this after a never-ending session of meatball surgery topped off with a _significant_ amount of alcohol. He watched as the intoxicated man stumbled, before plopping unceremoniously down on one knee, arms outstretched.

_“Youuu arrreee, the breathhhlesss hush of eveninnnggggg!”_

_Oh, how lovely. Now it’s a serenade._

_“Thatttt...something-something-something…a lovelyyyy songgggg!”_

Trying to hide his amused smirk, B.J. grabbed at one of Hawkeye’s outstretched arms, tossing it back over his shoulder as he heaved the man up to stand on unsteady feet.

“Come on, Sinatra. Let’s get you home.”

Hawkeye didn’t let the manhandling dull his performance, proceeding instead to take advantage of his proximity to B.J. and sing unabashedly into his ear. 

_“You-youuuu areee the aaangeellll glooowwww-”_

With every slurred word, B.J. regretfully inhaled a strong whiff of whiskey, gin, beer, and all other manner of drinks the O Club had been stocked with. Hawkeye was precariously perched on two left feet at this point, having consumed enough alcohol to put an Irishman to shame. B.J. tactfully led them around the Swamp’s directional sign, intending to limit the damage done to their humble abode.

_“That lightssss a carrrrrrr-”_

“I think it’s supposed to be ‘star’, Hawk…” B.J. muttered, thinking that he would bet his next paycheck on the fact that Hawkeye wouldn’t remember a damned thing from tonight.

“A thousand apologies to my captive audience--- _a STARRRRR_!”

_Now he’s just trying to sound bad._

Putting a steadying arm around Hawkeye’s waist, B.J. grabbed at the Swamp door with his now free hand. After a few tries, he managed to pull the door open and maneuver Hawkeye through without injury to himself, his roommate, or their luxurious accommodations. He might just have to take up juggling at this point. 

B.J. shuffled the pair over towards Hawkeye’s cot, attempting to deposit his charge somewhat gently. He wasn’t entirely successful, for as soon as he took away the stabilizing arm on Hawkeye’s back, the surgeon all but collapsed with exhaustion, or drunkenness, or both. Hawkeye fell face down onto his pillow, not bothering to remove a single article of clothing or unlace a single boot. 

_“Theeee dearest thingsss...that I knowwwww-”_ Hawkeye continued, a mouthful of pillow case not stopping the end of his performance.

With a huff of amusement, B.J. headed for his own cot, dropping a bit more gracefully onto his than Hawkeye had. In spite of the muffled sound to his words, the soused surgeon confidently belted out the last line.

_“Are what youuuuu areeeeeeee.”_

At singing “you”, Hawkeye raised a tired arm and pointed it in the general direction of B.J.’s cot, eliciting a bemused chuckle and head shake from the Californian.

“Now, really, Hawk, I’m a married man,” he needled, lips quirking upwards.

A garbled groan emanated from Hawkeye’s general direction. He lifted his head a smidge and shifted his eyes towards B.J., pouting.

“You’re no fun.”

B.J. rolled his eyes as Hawkeye dramatically plopped his head back down into his pillow and started humming the last three lines of the Frank Sinatra tune. As he bent down to unlace his boots, B.J. could have sworn he heard something that sounded like “party pooper” coming from the drunk in the corner.

With a breathy laugh, B.J. couldn’t help but marvel at his roommate’s insane capacity for shenanigans, mischief, tomfoolery, and all other manner of misbehavior. He just didn’t _know_ how Hawkeye managed it. But boy was it sure a sight to behold. 

Satisfied that Hawkeye was still breathing despite smothering himself in his own pillow, B.J. relished in the relief of unlaced boots, kicking his feet up, and relaxing. After long OR sessions, especially like the one they just had, sitting down truly never felt so good. This last one had been particularly rough. He’d just gotten back from some much-needed R and R; three whole days of good food, good sleep, and no blood-stained _anything_. No sooner had his jeep rolled into the compound than Radar’s voice had boomed over the loudspeakers about incoming wounded, lots of them. And that light, floaty feeling cloaking B.J.’s shoulders had been dashed quicker than he could say “Honey, I’m home!” Batch after batch of bloodied soldiers came in, seeming younger and younger as the hours ticked by, all but ensuring the destressing he’d achieved in Tokyo was unceremoniously thrown out the window. B.J. shook his head remembering how he hadn’t even had time to unpack before being whisked away to the scrub room; just threw his duffel bag and dress uniform on his cot before hightailing it after Hawkeye and Charles.

_My duffel bag!_

With Hawkeye still humming a loud and out of tune song he didn’t recognize in the background, B.J. lunged for his bag. He began intently searching, pushing aside shorts, socks, undershirts, a present for Peg, the Fig Newtons he’d bought for Colonel Potter...until his fingers finally brushed soft fabric. With a small triumphant sound, B.J. pulled his brand-new kimono from the duffel.

His blue robe was all fine and dandy, but this was precisely the article of clothing that was called for during gin-drinking afternoons in the Swamp. Kicking off his boots, B.J. shed his green jacket and slipped into the greyish-black kimono. He had seen it hanging at a little stall in the market on his last day of R and R, and for some reason, he felt that he just had to have it.

Getting to his feet, he gave himself a once over. It fit nicely, and would be offset beautifully by his drinking hat. B.J. couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. _Peg’s gunna love this. I wonder what Hawkeye will think?_

Curious for an answer, and knowing it would probably be laughable considering the state Hawkeye was in, B.J. walked over to Hawkeye’s cot and gave his friend’s shoulder a little shake.

“Hey, Hawk!”

The muffled sound he heard seemed to be an affirmative response, although Hawkeye didn’t show any hint of moving.

B.J. shook him a little bit harder.

“Come on, Hawk, I’ve got something to show ya!”

“No one’s home. Leave your name and number and someone will get back to you in 3 to 5 business days,” Hawkeye grumbled. 

The intoxicated sweet-spot was beginning to wear off, moving Hawkeye from boisterous and chatty to brooding and gloomy. As a bonus that Hawkeye definitely didn’t ask for, the Swamp had taken on the distinct impression of sickeningly spinning around him, or maybe he was spinning and the Swamp was still? Either way, all he wanted to do was keep his eyes shut, his head stuffed in a pillow, and a tamp on his alcohol-infused emotional state.

“Well, well, well. Looks like someone’s moved onto the final step: inebriated _and_ melancholy.”

An unamused groan emerged from the semi-conscious surgeon.

Dropping down in the chair next to Hawkeye’s cot, B.J.’s eyes raked over the sprawled out form of his roommate: legs askance, uniform askew, and instead of music being hummed, it was now depressing moans and unsatisfied huffs of discontent. _Definitely reached the sorrowful despondency phase._

“In-e-bri-a-ted. That’s fun to say. Ineeeebriated. Who’s inebriated? Who _isn’t_ inebriated? I’ve been inebriated since my medical school entrance exams,” Hawkeye slurred into his pillow case.

He heaved a melodramatic sigh, visibly deflating in an attempt to sink further into his rigid army cot. Everything was jumbled and spinning, his thoughts dizzyingly pinging around his brain, coherency lingering tantalizingly out of reach. Words were flowing from his lips without a second thought, which was always a dangerous venture into the depths of his psyche.

“As for melancholy, my good sir, I do not dance with that devil. For it is a mortal folly of which I have no cause to endure. That emotion dare not touch me—I am the brightest ray of sunshine in this steaming, rotten rubbish heap,” he added, a cockney accent on his stifled words.

B.J. quirked up an eyebrow. _Melancholy Hawkeye was a real treat. And he is reallyyyyy drunk right now. I don’t think he’s going to remember any of this tomorrow._

“Charles? Oh, Charles is that you I hear?” B.J. jibed, tossing his feet up on Hawkeye’s bunk. He should be writing a letter to Peg, he’d thought of practically nothing else during those 24 hours in surgery, but instead he leaned back and settled comfortably into the chair. He was _undeniably_ entertained by the random, incoherent phrases emanating from his _undeniably_ blitzed roommate. No filter Hawkeye was deliciously unpredictable. 

“That shiny cue ball is from _Bos-ton_ ,” Hawkeye mumbled gruffly. “Boston high society, so high you’d need stilts to even graze the lapels of his smoking jacket. That accent was _Brit-ish._ You know: small island, bland food, God Save the Queen, land of our forefathers?” 

B.J. chuckled under his breath as he reached behind him and snagged his drinking hat. Perching it askew on his head, he folded his hands across his chest and fixed Hawkeye with an appraising look. Shiny cue ball, he’d have to remember that insult for their resident aristocrat. Poking fun at Charles wasn’t nearly as fun when he wasn’t around, but it still was one of the pair’s more entertaining pastimes. 

“Well, it was no Cary Grant, but you’d definitely give him a run for his money with your devilishly handsome looks and sparkling personality,” B.J. replied, hand placed thoughtfully on his chin, finger tapping his nose. “Anyways, Charles sounds more Brit- _ish_ than Boston- _ish_...”

B.J. raised his eyes towards the tent ceiling in thought, calling up his best impression of a Boston accent.

“One time Chaales invited me to the bah for a beah. A bah? I said. A bah! He replied. We sounded like a gaggle of wicked sheep!”

It wasn’t his best pun, but he thought the Boston accent wasn’t half bad. Instead of the laugh he had expected to hear though, Hawkeye had gone oddly silent. No chortle, snicker or guffaw, no groaning, huffing, or grousing either. Just...silence.

B.J. looked towards his roommate and was surprised to see his head turned in his direction, blue eyes open wide and staring disconcertingly at him.

Hawkeye swallowed thickly. He opened his mouth to say something…but nothing came out.

The tense silence and Hawkeye’s intense expression caught B.J. off guard. All of a sudden, some sort of switch had been flipped, one that he was completely unaware of.

Hawkeye blinked, and then blinked again. He was seeing double, no _triple_ , and the room was still nauseatingly spinning—and all he could discern, which made no goddamn sense and was so wildly unrealistic, was an askew straw hat and a dark kimono. Because only one person ever wore that. At least only one person he knew of that had a Boston accent.

“Tr-Trap?”

_Huh...?_ B.J. gave a quick look to his left and right, and then another one behind him. _Trap? As in Trapper? The Trapper?_

“What are you doin’ here? When did’ya get back?” Hawkeye whispered, confusion evident in his slurred words. 

_Back? He can’t really think I’m Trapper...can he?_

“You shouldn’t be here, Trap. You got to go home, remember? Why aren’t you home...”

B.J. was dumbfounded by Hawkeye’s words. Maybe he was…hallucinating? Dreaming? So far past three sheets to the wind that he’d somehow mentally reverted back to a few months ago? At any rate, if Hawkeye was truly seeing things, this was a whole new level of drunkenness that B.J. had _never_ experienced. All he knew for certain was that the broken lilt in Hawkeye’s voice and the pain burning in his cerulean eyes meant the intoxicated surgeon believed, no matter how bizarrely, that he, B.J. Hunnicutt, was Trapper.

What B.J. really wanted to say was: _you’re starting to freak me out here, because this has never happened before, and this is a situation I have no clue how to handle, so could you please just...snap out of it?_ Instead, the Californian cleared his throat and stared imploringly into those dark blue orbs.

“Hawk...?”

Hawkeye startled at the use of his name, and although B.J. was making eye contact, he could tell Hawkeye didn’t really _see_ him. B.J. hadn’t broken the reverie that seemed to consume his roommate; Hawk's glassy eyes were staring right through him.

Barely more than a whisper, Hawkeye’s voice broke. 

“You didn’t even say goodbye, Trap. Everything we’d been through together, after all of that, and all you left me was a kiss? How could you do that to me?”

B.J. swallowed thickly, hating the pain and remorse that laced Hawkeye’s every syllable. Hated that somehow he was making Hawkeye feel this way. Hated Trapper for the way he disappeared if these were the emotions he’d left in his destructive wake. 

He didn’t want to be Trapper. B.J. knew in Hawkeye’s mind, at least at first, he was just filling the other guy’s shoes. But he’d tried so hard to remove himself from that, to show Hawk that he wasn’t going to leave the way Trapper did, that he could trust him. 

Hawkeye had a faraway look in his eyes, voice thick with emotion.

“I waited. For days, weeks. And no letter, nothing. Maybe all we’d shared didn’t mean as much to you as it did to me. I understand you wanting to forget. But did you really want to forget everything?”

B.J. was speechless. Dumbfounded. Perplexed. Flabbergasted.

It was one thing to be mistaken for Trapper, it was quite another for your roommate to drunkenly reveal how much the previous occupant of the Swamp had hurt him. He searched for words, phrases, sounds, _anything_ to say, but B.J. was coming up empty. How Hawkeye felt after Trapper left had been danced around and hinted at, but never actually admitted. Whenever the conversation got too serious, or B.J. asked too personal of a question, the dark-haired surgeon would obfuscate with a salacious joke or entice him into a witty repartee.

This was something new.

Something different.

As much as Hawkeye was rambling about how Trapper had treated him, there seemed to be things left unsaid, secrets swirling in the drunken man’s eyes. Things B.J. didn’t need to be a genius to piece together.

_We were close,_ Hawkeye had said. And left it at that.

_Close_.

How...ambiguous. That term might mean something entirely different depending on the context, connotation, and subtext. Because B.J. had friends who were _close_ back in Mill Valley, friends who enjoyed the nightlife in San Francisco and the bars in Chinatown. Was Hawkeye that kind of _close_ with Trapper? Or was he _close_ in the way that B.J. assumed he and Hawkeye were?

It didn’t really matter one way or the other. That’s what B.J. told himself. But he couldn’t help the pit of jealousy that knotted itself in his gut. Because while he and Hawkeye were _close_ , there were times they felt like maybe he wanted to be a different kind of _close_ …

But that wasn’t something he would force into their relationship.

That was his life, his secret.

He’d always just assumed that Hawkeye’s insatiable flirtations and effortless magnetism with members of both sexes was just Hawkeye being Hawkeye. There was never presumed to be any truth behind those propositions…right?

B.J.’s mind was racing a mile a minute and he had to force himself to breathe. He was getting ahead of himself, that spiraling rabbit hole he’d just dove down was in no way based on hard evidence or proof of any kind. He was guessing, assuming. And you know what they say about assuming.

Still struggling to find the right thing to say, Hawkeye put the surgeon out of his misery. He plopped his head back down with an exhausted sigh and picked back up singing the Frank Sinatra song from earlier, seeming to have forgotten all that had just taken place.

_“Somedayyyy, my happy arms…will hold youuu._

_And someeedayyyyy, I’ll knowww…that moment divine,_

_When all the things you are…are…mine.”_

B.J. stared at the back of the drunken man’s head, trying not to read too far into the muffled lyrics filtering passed Hawkeye’s pillow. The off-key singing turned into humming, which eventually turned into heavy breathing, and then finally snoring. Hawkeye Pierce, drinking heavyweight extraordinaire, had officially crashed.

Still B.J. didn’t say anything. His mind was running a mile a minute, and he knew for sure he had _not_ had enough to drink to be thinking about this right now. B.J. tried to recall the things Hawkeye had brought up about Trapper. _What had set him off? Why had this night been so different from all the others?_

He brought a hand up to scratch at an itch on his arm and his fingers brushed the edge of his new kimono. He hadn’t done anything different today or said anything differe- _oh, fuck._

The pieces slowly started to fall into place.

_The kimono._

_The drinking hat._

_The Boston accent._

_That couldn’t be it...could it?_

“Idiot,” B.J. breathed under his breath. He tore off his drinking hat and tossed it behind him onto his cot. Standing up, B.J. started removing his kimono, mentally berating himself and shaking his head in frustration. _Was it really that simple?_

A rap on the door made him jump, one arm still in his new robe.

“Captain Pierce? Captain Hunnicutt?” 

It was Nurse Able. She was peering through the window, voice frantic.

“Uh...yeah!” B.J. called. He hated to admit that he was relieved by the distraction, anything to take his mind off of all he'd heard. Opening the door slightly, the nurse looked concernedly in Hawkeye’s direction before catching B.J.’s gaze.

“Private Simmons’ blood pressure is dropping, and Hawkeye had asked to be told if his condition worsened. I was coming to grab him, but…” she trailed off, eyes taking in the surgeon’s sprawled, unconscious state.

“Oh right he did mention something about that. But don’t worry, I’m covering for him tonight. I’ll be right behind you!”

With a nod, the nurse closed the door and headed off towards post-op.

B.J. threw the dark grey kimono back into his bag with a disheartened huff. A corner of the silk was still sticking out, so he shoved it further down underneath a used shirt and a pair of socks, a bit more aggressively than was strictly necessary. With the same hostility, he slammed his feet into his boots, not even bothering to lace them up. He crossed the Swamp, not looking forward to what would undoubtedly be a long night. Upon checking his watch, he realized with a sigh that it would be a long early morning.

Hawkeye’s snores echoed in his ears as he opened the door. As he tossed one last look at his bunkmate who was still soundly asleep, a heaviness wrapped tightly around B.J.'s heart. There was a part of him that wanted Hawkeye to forget all about tonight because their lives would be so much easier, they could go on pretending that everything was the same and they wouldn't have to deal with any of it. Another part of him, a smaller, more wistful part, secretly hoped that Hawkeye _would_ remember.

But one thing was certain: if he’d known Hawkeye was going to react like this, he would have left that damn kimono in Tokyo.


	2. Breathless Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye's hungover and B.J. is brooding. Who remembers what from the night before?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! I hope you all enjoy where this is headed (and please forgive all the Shakespeare and movie quotes, I went a little overboard this chapter lol). Apologies for taking so long for the update, happy reading friends!

“Unhhh.”

Hawkeye groaned as he made his way painfully back to consciousness.

_Why. Whyyyy did I decide to have that much to drink?_

Granted, he never _needed_ an excuse to drown himself in whatever alcohol he’d selected for that day. Most people were 60% water, he was 60% gin. Or beer. Or whiskey. Take your pick; if it was in a glass bottle behind the counter at Rosie’s, he had definitely shown it a good time on more than one occasion. Consuming his weight in spirits was an Olympic sport that he always took home the gold medal in; matter of fact, he took home quite a few _other_ things as well when he was in that carefree, uninhibitedly raucous mood. Other things that were much more fun than a hangover.

If he didn’t feel so rotten, he would have kicked himself for his shameless self-indulgence. He’d lost control, going over that very distinctive line that he drew for himself. Because now, in addition to the raging hangover that he would be nursing for the foreseeable future, he also had no memory of the night before. Not a one.

Which should worry him more than it did.

But his mind had quickly bounced towards his current predicament. Hawkeye was not so much preoccupied with determining how far he’d put his foot in his mouth last night as he was with deciphering the extent of his rapidly-materializing hangover.

His head felt like it was about implode or explode, an incessant pounding in his temples rivaling the most ostentatious drum solo in the history of bandstand. Face down in his pillow, there was only the slightest hint of daylight tugging at the corners of his shut eyes, but it seemed _much_ too bright and _much_ too painful. Laying on his stomach was doing him no favors, either. Every inch of his gastrointestinal tract was performing summersaults and pirouettes, exacerbating the nausea that bubbled at the corners of his awareness. And here was the kicker: why did it feel like his _teeth_ hurt? Was that normal?

Of one thing he was certain: he still had way too much alcohol coursing through his system. If anyone lit a match near him, he’d probably spontaneously combust.

Mouth dry and throat scratchy, Hawkeye shifted his head up a little off of his pillow, tentatively blinking his eyes.

_Oh, God._

_Bad plan, very bad plan. _

_Abort._

Stomach flipping and rolling like he was in a dingy on a raging sea, Hawkeye slammed his eyes back shut and swallowed thickly. Moving was apparently not anything he’d be doing any time soon.

Not that he _really_ wanted to.

A small voice tried to remind him of the worrisome gaps in his memory, but he countered with the argument that he needed to address his more pressing physical issues. Namely his head…and stomach…quite frankly his entire body. Burrowing his head further into his pillow, Hawkeye wished for death.

Something swift to put him out of his misery.

A golf club, preferably the hefty three wood, was an attractive choice, but it was much too far away.

Killing his brain cells one by one with Charles’ mind-numbing selection of classical what- _could-_ be-charitably-labeled “music” was another option. But that _also_ involved moving.

Pounding head nestled in his stuffy pillowcase that smelled faintly of week-old gin, Hawkeye presumed smothering was his only viable course of action.

He groaned again, louder this time, hoping it would do something to make him feel better. To alleviate some small semblance of his suffering.

It didn’t.

_Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come._

“How about now?” Hawkeye grumbled weakly.

He wished, longed, _begged_ that he could fall back asleep and forget the unpleasantness of being awake. He’d put his whole next paycheck towards a miracle cure, something that would push him back away from sensory overload, nagging nausea, and a mouthful of cotton.

Alas, the surgeon knew he did nothing in halves. To hangover or not to hangover, that was the question. Two sides of the same coin, flipping and summersaulting through the air, with no real certainty as to which side it would land on. Either he would wake up feeling completely refreshed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, sarcastic comment prepped and ready on his tongue; or he felt as if he’d crawled on his hands and knees to hell and back, every inch of him protesting movement or thought or speech.

This morning was shaping up to most assuredly land him in the latter.

Knowing his hellacious hangover wouldn’t let him off that easy, Hawkeye instead made up his mind to shift onto his side. Laying on his stomach was ever increasing his already overwhelming nausea, and he decided this needed to be fixed. Immediately.

Moving couldn’t be _that_ terrible. Sure, lifting his head slightly and opening his eyes not moments ago hadn’t been what he’d label a “success”, but who was he to give up after one go? Stubbornness was his only quality that outweighed his self-preservation. Come pain or discomfort, come hell or highwater, Hawkeye Pierce would not be bested by booze. He’d survived every hangover he’d ever had thus far, which was an encouraging, if not slightly disconcerting, thought.

_Moving. Right._

_Here I go._

_I’m moving._

_Right now._

_About to go._

_Yep, here it is._

_The moving._

_Movement._

_I’m definitely moving._

_It’s happening…now._

_Right now._

_Move your ass, Hawk._

_You’ll feel better once you do, scouts honor._

While not entirely convinced by his pep talk, Hawkeye nevertheless clenched his jaw, willing himself to not revisit any of the gallons of alcohol he consumed last night, and turned as painstakingly as possible. He brought his knees up, tentatively rotating, scooting his right arm underneath his body. Taking it one centimeter at a time. Slow and steady wins the race after all.

_Don’t think I’ve ever been called slow or steady, but there’s a first time for everything._

The surgeon had to swallow a few times, but miraculously, _eventually_ , he was on his side and the tent didn’t seem to be spinning anymore.

_Small favors_ , he thought. 

Maybe, just maybe, with his late twenties rearing their ugly heads, he was getting too old for antics like this. But that conclusion skittered away as quickly as it had entered his mind.

Hawkeye breathed out an unbelieving scoff, knowing that hangover or no hangover, this was not a habit he’d ever break. Though he usually regretted it the next morning when his stomach churned and every bright light or loud noise made him want to crawl under his blanket and hide from the world, he always got right back up and did it again. Alcohol was the crutch with which he hobbled through this godforsaken police action.

_At least there’s no wounded, another small favor. Well, no wounded yet._

Tossing his left arm over his head, trying to shut out every stimulus from being unfortunately awake, he prayed a second time for a swift death.

When nothing immediately happened, he sighed in disappointment.

He waited.

Released a controlled breath.

Waited some more.

_Wishful thinking._

_Can’t win them all._

_Why be rewarded with the blissful release of death, when you can suffer through the agony of an I-promise-I’m-never-drinking-again-or-so-help-me level of hangover? Where’s the fun in getting off easy?_

Running his tongue over his teeth, Hawkeye could taste the bitter remnants of the plethora of drinks he’d downed. He’d kill for a cool glass of water right about now. Even more so, he knew he should brush his teeth, and shower, and get out of the clothes he’d been in for longer than he could remember. But water was a nice, easy first step.

_A first step that involved getting up out of this cot and walking to the mess tent._

So maybe “nice” and “easy” was a _bit_ of a stretch. If a glass of water miraculously appeared next to his cot, he’d swear on his collection of nude magazines that he’d never drink another drop, would sojourn any and all fornication, and pull a Father Mulcahy and run off to join the church.

Popping one blue eye open, he searched for the miracle.

No magical cup appeared, unfortunately. While he was grudgingly upset there was no glass of water to wet his whistle with, he was significantly more pleased that he wouldn’t have to live up to his half-baked promises.

_It’s a sign._

_I’ll just have to keep up with the spirits, sex, and sinning._

_What a cross to bear._

Before shutting his eye again, Hawkeye realized, with a large helping of confusion, that B.J.’s cot didn’t look slept in. And what’s more, the tall surgeon was nowhere to be found in Hawkeye’s field of vision.

B.J.’s bag was still propped up on the bed, half-spilled out clothing scattered across the blanket. But his boots were gone, and Hawkeye hadn’t heard an annoying quip about the current aftermath of his boisterous night yet. So it seemed his Swamp mate was MIA.

Wracking his brain, Hawkeye tried to gather the wisps of his memories from the night before, searching for the reason why B.J. wasn’t asleep in his cot.

However, any and all recollections of the past 12 hours remained tantalizingly, maddeningly out of reach.

Hawkeye let out an overdramatic sigh. _What was the expression, like herding cats?_ Truly, it was much too bright and loud and overwhelming to not only be awake, but to be _thinking_. Especially when those thoughts rushed like a river over slick, moss-covered stones, escaping his outstretched fingers and dancing vexingly away.

Hawkeye was fighting a losing battle. He obtained blank after blank, receiving nothing but white noise when he asked himself, _What happened last night?_ That unknown was frustrating, the nagging uncertainty a hard pebble in his shoe that he couldn’t remove. All the alcohol he’d consumed, in unquestionably large quantities, ensured that Hawkeye would draw nothing but a bolded question mark about the shenanigans of the previous evening.

Though he tried not to dwell on it, the large gaping hole in his memory was beginning to worry the hungover surgeon. Up until now, he’d always maintained control. For the most part. That line was not a line in the sand; it was carved painstakingly and purposefully in concrete. The life he’d led, doing the things he’d done, he _needed_ that line. It protected him. It protected the people he cared about.

Not being able to recall even the tiniest of details? Who he saw? What he’d done? What he’d said?

_Shit with a capital “S”._

There was no way he’d divulged anything too personal. He kept his closely guarded secrets buried deep, locked away in an impenetrable chest, in the corner of a dark cellar, inside a shuttered, heavily fortified castle. There was no way, no chance, he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

_Right?_

His train of thought was spiraling sickeningly out of control, doing nothing to quell the nausea roiling in his stomach. Hawkeye moaned despairingly, scrunching his eyes closed even further to shut out any vestiges of the morning sun.

He held no hope for moving, had no foreseeable resolution to his current misery. All he could do was lay there, wallowing in despair, suffering. Feeling on the brink of his demise, the relics of liquor coursing through his veins.

Hawkeye prayed one last time for death.

He felt worse than that night he had dragged B.J. to Rosie’s to drown his sorrows after Radar got hurt. And much worse than the hangover he had sported on the ride back from Seoul before Trapper left.

_Trapper._

Something about that probed his hazy mind. A ripple of something beneath the surface. A hint. A word that dangled unknowing and unspoken on the tip of his tongue.

Maybe he and B.J. had talked about him last night? He couldn’t be sure _why_ necessarily, because he never brought him up unless he could help it…and there were things he didn’t really want to…divulge. The gap in his memory was really starting to form a pit in his stomach. One that was much more painful and perturbing that his present queasiness.

_Did we really talk about…Trapper? There’s no way. None. How would he have even come up? There’s no way-_

His jumbled thoughts were rudely interrupted by the unceremonious slamming of the Swamp door.

“Moooooorning!”

Hawkeye whimpered pitifully at the loud decibel of B.J.’s voice and the accosting crash of the closing door. His roommate had made an unsurprisingly loud entrance into their shared space, sounding much too cheery and much to un-hungover.

_Life was cruel and unfair sometimes._ Why that sometimes felt like all the time to Hawkeye, he would never know or hope to guess.

Tugging the pillow out from under him with this left hand, Hawkeye positioned it over his head and pressed it firmly against his ear in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the onslaught of auditory attacks.

“Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the army-issued cot?”

“No, I woke up on the wrong side of the _world_. Could have sworn I paid someone to ship me home smuggled inside a jukebox…” Hawkeye groused, wrapping the pillow even further around his pounding skull.

“Sorry, they returned to sender. Not enough postage.”

With an amused twinkle in his eyes, B.J. delicately placed a mugful of water on the ground by Hawkeye’s cot. B.J. had half a mind to shake Hawkeye awake and have him down the water right then and there. But he really wasn’t in the mood for a contentious conversation. He had…other things on his mind.

Collapsing into the nearby chair, B.J.’s eyes skated over his roommate’s slumped form, an unstoppable smirk adorning his face. With the pillow over his head, clothes disheveled, limbs haphazardly extended, and intermittent groans of discontent filling the air, his roommate was the epitome of hungover.

If he was being honest, B.J. did feel _kind_ of bad for him. While he was feeling no ill-lasting effects of the alcohol from the night before, he was certain the bemoaning surgeon next to him was not so fortunate.

B.J. took a swig of lukewarm coffee from his mug as his gaze fell to the opened travel bag still sitting on his cot. He’d successfully avoided thinking about his new kimono, Hawkeye’s drunken confessions, and the revelations about Trapper for the past few hours. But sitting here, knowing what he knew, or thought he knew, was like a knife twisting in his gut. He couldn’t _not_ think about what had happened the night before.

He had to find a way to broach the subject. Or at least tactfully inquire about what Hawkeye could remember. Not for any selfish reason…no, of course not. He was just curious was all. And it would be a normal thing to ask.

Clearing his throat, B.J. tried to keep his tone light as he began the game of “Did Hawkeye remember anything he told me last night?”; a game that had as high of a risk as did a reward.

“I know this is probably a stupid question, but humor me: on a scale of perfectly fine to I’d-rather-be-dead-right-now, how hungover are you?”

Hawkeye lifted the corner of his pillow barrier. Bleary blue eyes shone out of the darkness, shooting unamused daggers towards B.J.

_Does this look like perfectly fine to you, Beej? _

The older surgeon scoffed in annoyance, incredulous that B.J. would have the gall, the _audacity,_ to ask him such a thing.

“Well you know what they say, Beej: there is no substitute for misery,” Hawkeye deadpanned.

“Ohhh, I see. It’s an ‘I’d-rather-be-dead’ level of hangover. Those are always a treat,” B.J. replied teasingly. It had been a simple question to start, something to build up from, something to get his feet wet with. Starting off with a run-of-the-mill, black-and-white question was a safe choice, especially since he didn’t know how much Hawkeye remembered.

In response to his jibe, B.J. felt more than saw the eye roll that Hawkeye tossed in his direction.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea! Instead of all this talking, just reach over and smother me with this pillow. Then I’d feel _so_ much better!”

B.J. chuckled at the faux cheerfulness in Hawkeye’s voice.

“Self-pity is a gorgeous color on you, Hawk. Goes great with your eyes.”

Another eye roll was sent his way before Hawkeye shoved the pillow back down, discontent oozing from every motion. 

“Youth is wasted on the wrong people,” came the muttered reply.

B.J. smirked outwardly as his mind raced, jumping hurdles and spinning every which way. Hawkeye was _very_ hungover, which meant the odds of him remembering anything were quite slim. And he hadn’t offered anything in the way of an explanation or apology or half-hearted joke to deflect from what he’d shared. So it was quite possible the dark-haired surgeon, in all his drunken glory the night before and all his hungover splendor right now, truly didn’t remember _anything._

B.J. wasn’t sure if that made him feel better. Or worse.

But he needed to know. Sneaky game and uncertainty be damned.

Jumping into the deep end with both feet and tossing caution to the wind, B.J. nonchalantly asked the one question that had been overshadowing all of his other coherent thoughts and feelings.

“Sooo, you remember anything from last night?”

Hawkeye rolled slowly onto his back, crossing his arms over the pillow that was still pressed against his face.

“Do I remember anything from last night? Hmm. Some bits. Some pieces. Were still at war, right?”

“Ah ha. You’re a poet and didn’t even know it.”

“All the best lovers are.”

B.J. tried not to focus on the word choice Hawkeye had used there. Because that was totally normal. A normal word, that Hawkeye would use on a normal day, in a normal conversation. Ignoring the way his heart seemed to slam against his ribcage and tendrils of nervousness snaked through his veins, B.J. continued his questioning in as innocent a voice as he could muster.

“So…nothing? Not a thing?”

Hawkeye let out a cross between a groan and a bemused scoff.

“What is this Beej, twenty questions? Did I say something embarrassing?”

At B.J.’s hesitation, Hawkeye pulled the pillow away from his face, concern flooding his features. He fixed suspicious blue eyes on the Californian.

“Tell me I didn’t sing the Andrews Sisters.”

B.J. shook his head.

_Close, but no cigar._

“Did I pose like Betty Grable?”

Another head shake.

“I don’t think you’ve got the legs for it, Hawk,” B.J. deflected, wondering how close Hawkeye was going to come to guessing what really happened.

After a moment of thought, Hawkeye’s blue eyes widened and he groaned in apparent understanding. Dramatically, he pressed the pillow back to his face.

“Oh god. Ohhhh _god_. I reenacted the airport scene from Casablanca again, didn’t I?” Hawkeye deduced, embarrassment coloring his words.

“Last night you said a great many things…” B.J. replied evasively, finally attaining the answer to his question: _Hawkeye really didn’t remember._

_Should I tell him?_

_Or should I let him think he guessed correctly?_

_I mean, would it be so bad to make him believe that instead of the broken sounding secrets he’d shared, all he did was a drunkenly decent performance of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman’s emotional farewell? He has acted out that scene a few times before, so it wouldn’t necessarily be a lie, per se…_

B.J. heard Hawkeye grumbling from beneath the pillow, apparently taking B.J.'s silence as confirmation, and resoundingly mortified at his discovery of the previous night’s intoxicated escapade.

In that moment, the Californian decided that having Hawkeye in the dark about the things he’d said last night was the right thing to do. It was for the best.

Of course, in a perfect world, B.J.’d want them to talk about it, dive into it. He’d want to help Hawkeye heal, un-repress those emotions and memories, and even broach the subject of how close they were. How close they’d like to be…he’d like them to be.

_But in that rosy, perfect world, it wouldn’t have taken fighting a war for us to meet. We wouldn’t be thousands of miles away from everything we knew, covered in dirt and sweat and blood, death looming around every corner. We could be in a café in San Francisco, sharing espresso and secrets. Or we could be walking down the main street of Crabapple Cove, swapping jokes beneath a summer sky. We could just exist together. Free. Unburdened. Not worrying about the way it would look, or who was watching, or what other people thought._

This perfect world was so enticingly beautiful and intoxicating to indulge. And as painful as it was to admit, B.J. knew it was folly to humor these daydreams.

_That world was only going to ever be one thing: a fantasy. In the real world, you have obligations_ , B.J. reminded himself _._

_A wife to go home to._

_A family to think about._

_You have ties and responsibilities._

Images of Peg and Erin danced in his mind’s eye and he felt the harsh bitterness of self-loathing creep up. Who was he to feel what he was feeling, think what he was thinking? It had been so easy to bask in the beauty of that daydream. Selfish. Incredibly, inexcusably, selfish.

How could he dare to think of himself at a time like this?

How could he look to another, whose emotions were worn like a flashy badge on his sleeve, who was a conundrum wrapped up inside an enigma, who may not even feel the very same things he was?

Disgust slapped him ruthlessly, pricking hot and fierce against his skin, constricting his throat and coiling like a vice around his heart.

_And you’re in the middle of a warzone (police-action zone?) for Christ sakes._

_You don’t have the freedom or the luxury to feel the things you desperately want to. The things you’ve been trying so hard to ignore…_

Hawkeye’s melodramatic response brought B.J. crashing back painfully through the glass ceiling of reality. 

“How terrible to have no memory of what I can only imagine was one of my better performances,” the surgeon lamented in a muffled voice.

Once again lifting the pillow from where it was smothering his embarrassment, Hawkeye fixed B.J. with his piercing blue eyes.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

B.J. attempted to keep his torturous thoughts from leaking into his expression or being revealed in the depths of his eyes. He plastered on what he could only hope was a believable, cheesy grin.

_Now who’s the actor, hm?_ , he thought, amused at the irony. 

With a slight shake of his head, B.J. set his mug down and gave Hawkeye a resounding round of applause.

“Bravo! Bogart couldn’t have done it any better!”

The dark-haired surgeon winced at the loudness of B.J.’s clapping. Holding the pillow aloft with one arm, Hawkeye raised his hand in a pleading gesture as if to beg, _If you could please lower your lofty level of loudness just a smidge, that surely wouldn’t go amiss. I am sporting a bruising hangover if you haven’t forgotten. So silence; blessed, hushed silence, please and thank you._

Nose turned up in the air, putting even the snobbiest and snootiest of stage actors to shame, Hawkeye pretentiously performed his farewell scene.

“As wonderfully rewarding as the past few minutes have been with you, I have made the difficult decision to retire to my dressing room. If you would be so kind as to leave all gifts and flowers outside my door. No knocking, calling, or _sounds_ of any sort. I do not wish to be disturbed. Adieu, adieu...”

With a final dramatic groan and wave of his hand, Hawkeye placed the pillow back down over his face, shutting out the world.

B.J. laughed quietly despite himself.

_All the world’s a stage for Hawkeye Pierce._

B.J. sat there a moment, listening to Hawkeye’s deep, muffled breathing, watching his chest expand and constrict.

_So. Hawk didn’t remember. Or if he did, he certainly put on one hell of a show._

B.J. still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. There was an overwhelming part of him that just wanted to _know_. It pulled at him, gnawed at him, chipped away at his composure and silver-banded commitment.

Like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

_Close._

He desperately wanted to _know_ the history behind Hawkeye’s use of that word, an explanation behind the secrets that brewed within those stormy eyes, a clear as day clarification of just _what_ Hawkeye was feeling.

How Hawkeye felt about Trapper.

How Hawkeye felt about B.J.

And how similar or different those feelings were.

_Close._

He needed, wanted, craved that knowledge. To pull back the curtain, to rip off the mask. To just _fucking know_. One way or the other. Positively. Absolutely. Definitively. Without question.

And yet.

Maybe…maybe he didn’t.

For he was swimming in the placid pool of ignorance, living and dying by the grayness of the area that he currently occupied. Because maybe he wouldn’t survive the jealousy that burned like a shot of tequila if Hawkeye talked about how _close_ he’d been with Trapper. And he surely would dig a shallow grave and carve a neat little tombstone for himself if he discovered that the assuming and guessing he’d done about Hawkeye was nothing more than a projection. A figment of his imagination. Baseless, blundering assumptions…

_Would you stop it already?_

_Get a grip, Hunnicutt. _

_The catastrophizing and worrying are doing you no favors._

Not for the first time, B.J. felt oddly like a pinball, being shot and pushed and prodded and pinged in too many different directions. His mind was spinning faster than a top, his emotions thrown every which way by some unseen juggler. The effect Hawkeye had on him…

Jesus.

He’d never get used to it. A high he was constantly chasing.

Those blue eyes had a way of undoing him, that laugh overwhelmed every one of his senses, that touch turning his knees to jelly. With a word, he could brighten even B.J.’s darkest day. With a smile, he could set B.J.’s heart aflutter. Hawkeye had exploded into his life with a vibrancy, exuberance, playfulness, and exultation that B.J.’d never quite seen before.

Knowing or not knowing, it didn’t make a difference. Not really.

Maybe right now, it was enough to just be here. Together but not _together._ Close but not _close._ B.J. could live with that. Could live with the unknown about Hawkeye’s past, the unanswered questions about his emotions. Could live with his own cruelly, terribly selfish thoughts. Could indulge in that rose-colored dream for just a few moments every day.

Though B.J. craved remedies, replies, and resolutions, it could be enough to just…be. 

_Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, Did my heart fly at your service._

God, he was so screwed. But at least he wasn’t hungover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fingers crossed you liked it! Many thanks to all who continue to stick with my stories. Please please please leave kudos/comments, I love to know if people are interested in what I'm writing! Update to follow shortly, later Swamp Rats!


	3. Angel Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> B.J. does some long overdue, and painfully honest, thinking. And while he is soul searching, he comes up with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one this time friends! Enjoy!

The shower had been as good a place as any to think.

Father Mulcahy had been in there for a few minutes, but quickly discovering that B.J. was in no mood to talk, ended his washing early and hightailed it from the tent.

B.J.’d had almost seven minutes to himself. Blessedly alone. Water staying as close to hot as he was going to get.

Seven whole minutes to go over exactly what had happened and how in the world he’d gotten to where he was at this moment in time.

He had scrubbed and scrubbed until his skin had been pink and raw, but it hadn’t washed away the contradictoriness of his feelings. 

How he felt about Peggy and Erin and his life back in San Francisco.

How he was feeling right now about Hawkeye and their closeness.

His commitment to his wife.

His obligation to his heart.

How the _fuck_ was he supposed to conflate the two?

And how the _fuck_ was he supposed to keep any sort of lid on his exasperatingly overflowing emotions?

It had taken him only thirty seconds beneath the steaming water for the self-loathing to begin, mentally kicking and smacking himself for even entertaining the thoughts he’d let creep into his consciousness.

_But still…this is all just hypothetical. Nothing’s happened. As much as I might selfishly want it to…_

No, nothing had happened.

These were just his tumultuous emotions, his own twisted world of self-inflicted agony. It was a world he had created brick by brick within the spaces of his mind, built upon an imagined foundation of reciprocated feelings and ignorance of his obligations.

Still that was all it was. An idea.

He hadn’t done anything, Hawkeye hadn’t done anything.

Nothing had happened.

Nothing manifested further beyond thought or suggestion.

It was all just _feeling_. And really only confirmed, unbridled feeling on his part.

So everything was fine. Just fine.

It had taken another minute and a half for his thoughts to turn to Hawkeye and their conversation from the night before.

Hints of jealousy still probed the corners of his psyche, making his jaw clench with surging emotion. He didn’t want to think about Trapper, and how… _close_ he and Hawkeye had possibly been. Because then he was liable to think about how _close_ he wanted to be with Hawkeye.

Hunger burned fiercely in his veins, desire inundated his senses. Passion and intoxicating yet unquenchable need.

The start of cold water was welcome.

He had left the showers not quite satisfied or convinced or certain, but nevertheless committed. After the last five minutes, he felt like he had the makings of a plan. Not a good plan, but a plan.

A plan that was selfish and self-serving, that would let him operate in a morally ambiguous and gray area: ignore it.

Not his best, and not his worst. It didn’t resolve anything, but it at least would give him some semblance of peace of mind. To not think about things that hadn’t happened and probably never would. The moral dilemma he’d placed himself in was one of the heart, not one of action. How he felt about Hawkeye…well he didn’t want to label it or place it neatly inside any easily understood category. But there was something there, something that begged to be sated and touched and reciprocated. As strong as this urge was, however deeply his emotions ran for Hawkeye, they were matched only by his love for his family.

Two sides of the same coin.

So as tempting and tantalizing as it would be to throw caution to the wind, B.J. knew he couldn’t. And shouldn’t. Without any indication one way or the other of how Hawkeye felt, this was all just hypothetical. If by some chance down the road Hawkeye suggested that there was something more than friendship between the two of them, that he wanted more, that he wanted to be _close_ …well, B.J. would face that when (and if) the time came.

Right now, he was making problems out of nothing, fabricating issues and illusions. He hadn’t actually done anything to break the vow he’d given Peg; all it was, was wishful thinking.

_A problem only for you. Nothing to write home over or bring Hawkeye into._

So.

B.J. would try his best not to think about Hawkeye (which would last all of 2 seconds, he knew). And he would not worry about Hawkeye and Trapper’s _closeness_. That was only liable to start him down a path he didn’t want to find himself on and wouldn’t be able to stop following. He was fully, intentionally, wishfully committed to ignoring how he felt about Hawkeye. It wouldn’t resolve anything but it was a start.

And, B.J. decided, the first thing he’d do after getting shaved and brushing his teeth would be to pen a lengthy letter to his wife.

_Together but not_ _together_ _. Close but not_ _close_ _._

While it sounded exactly like pouring salt in a wound, or death by a thousand tiny cuts, B.J. would do it because he had to. He only had the authority to ruin his own life, not Hawkeye’s or Peggy’s.

Entering the aptly named and unusually quiet Swamp, B.J. was happy to see that some of the water in the mug had been drunk. The loudspeaker was also still thankfully silent, which meant Hawkeye might get through this hangover a little more hydrated and a little less disturbed than could otherwise be planned. The older surgeon could use the bit of extra sleep. They didn’t get very many moments like this; a hushed calm, as if everything from the soldiers, to the birds in the trees, to the grass blowing in the wind, was holding its breath.

B.J. scrubbed the towel over his hair, his eyes stubbornly avoiding looking in Hawkeye’s direction.

He grabbed his shaving kit and positioned himself in front of the tiny mirror hanging in the middle of the tent. It unfortunately placed Hawkeye right in his line of sight.

The Californian’s gaze unwittingly skated past the mirror and over towards his roommate.

Hawkeye’s arm was tossed over his face, left leg bent at the knee and the right dangling off the cot. B.J. hoped his roommate’s slumber was dreamless, deep and sound and unperturbed. It was odd to find him so quiet and at peace. Hawkeye may have the rest of the world fooled with his antics and his levity and his jokes; but in rare instances like this, where sleep gently striped away his mask and dismantled enough of his walls, B.J. could steal a brief glimpse at the raw, mercurial man beneath the surface.

If Hawkeye woke up right now, B.J. wasn’t entirely sure how he’d explain away the fact that he was intensely staring at him.

As with all other things surrounding or involving the resident jokester and pompous entertainer, B.J. just couldn’t help himself.

How could he not find himself transfixed by this beautiful, dark-haired mystery?

How could he not be mesmerized by his peaceful breathing, soft snores bubbling from his parted lips?

_God._

B.J. really shouldn’t be thinking about those lips. How he longed to capture the bottom one between his teeth, tender and delicious and begging to be bitten.

Or the delicate line of Hawkeye’s throat, so enticing and tempting with his head leaned back. Who knew a neck could be so irresistibly suggestive? Why did he have the irrepressible urge to trace the peaks and valleys of that skin with the tip of his tongue? To whisper hot breath along that tantalizing flesh, urging shivers of pleasure down Hawkeye’s spine? 

_You keep this up, you better sprint straight back to the cold shower._

B.J. rolled his eyes, grudgingly forcing himself to look away and back into the small mirror.

_Glad to see your plan for not thinking about Hawkeye is going_ _so_ _well._

He tried to give his reflection a hard stare as he lathered shaving cream onto the lower half of his face. Forcing himself to focus on the ministrations, the habitual motions of shaving. Keeping his mind far away from the stunning man sprawled on the cot right in his line of sight.

Razor in hand, B.J. blinked at the stranger in the mirror. His hair was much longer now, wisps of it curling up at the ends. There were lines on his face that he hadn’t had before coming to Korea, and permanent purple circles stamped beneath his eyes. He’d aged years in what had only been months. Sometimes it felt like a lifetime ago that he’d left Mill Valley...

B.J. paused, razor poised in midair.

A random thought danced through his mind. A half-baked, insanely absurd idea.

_Ludicrous._

_Preposterous._

_Outrageous._

_But maybe…just maybe…it could work. And just maybe this isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had. At least not the worst idea I’ve had today._

Mind made up, and leaving no time for second guessing, he raked the razor over his skin, removing the lines of shaving cream with expert precision.

But he avoided the area right above his upper lip.


	4. The Dearest Things I Know Are What You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> B.J. is still conflicted (more certain about the decision to grow a mustache than about how he is feeling), Charles offers some words of wisdom (accompanied by a few critiques, naturally), and another plan is crafted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, readers! This also randomly turned into a prequel for my next fic, "you fill up my senses". I am all over the place with timelines and consistency and linearity--but hey, so was MASH sooooo I guess I learned from the best lol. Enjoy!!

_A mustache._

He could pull it off.

Probably.

Granted, he’d never tried. But it could work.

Presumably.

So very different. And yet maybe this was exactly the thing he needed to do. Scrubbing a finger over the beginning of stubbly growth under his nose, B.J. couldn’t help but smile.

A mustache.

It was already noticeable on his tanned face; over a week’s worth of stubble disappearing under the smooth strokes of his razor left his cheeks and jaw smooth and his upper lip with the beginnings of what would assuredly be an impressive mustache. B.J. began to stow away his toiletries with practiced precision, humming the Sinatra tune Hawkeye had been singing the night before under his breath. He’d decided to do some sleuthing before his roommate rose from his hungover slumber, some checking of facts and confirmation of assumptions. Sources like Klinger, who he could persuade with additional funds for his new white pumps, and Radar, who he could bribe with free check-ups for his animals, would easily be able to verify if Trapper John had ever worn a mustache. Because B.J. was almost certain the surgeon hadn’t. And if he did…well, a quick swipe of his razor would erase this wild and unthought out idea faster than Hawkeye could down a glassful of gin.

This insane “plan” of his would all but guarantee a night like before would never happen again. While not a permanent solution, B.J. felt it was the best he could do. It was a solution that hopefully ensured there would be no doubt, no hint, no _possibility_ , that Hawkeye would once again mistake him for Trapper. And it represented a tiny piece of his life that he was in control of, when every other assured thing and certainty seemed to be careening blindly, haphazardly off the rails. B.J. knew Hawkeye had been drunk when he’d thought he was Trapper. He knew it with every fiber of his being, from the tips of his ears down to his toes. Hawkeye had called him Trapper, but he hadn’t meant it.

And yet…there was a part of him…a heart-wrenching, unthinkable part of him…that almost envied the other man. _Envied_ him. Being mistaken for Trapper wounded him deeper than he believed possible, but was that drunken confession the nearest B.J. would ever get to being _close_ to Hawkeye?

The closeness that he unconsolably craved, desired, _needed_.

The closeness he could only imagine was shared between the two surgeons before he arrived?

Jealousy clawed at his throat, filling his mouth with a bitterness that he couldn’t swallow. B.J. released a shaky breath, averting his eyes from the conflicted man reflected in the mirror.

_Remember, you’re supposed to be ignoring your feelings. Until yesterday, you’d successfully ignored the fact that you tumbled head over Converse for Hawkeye Pierce from the first moment you laid your eyes on him. Nothing really has changed. Sure, he might have been close to Trapper before you got here. Sure, it might have been that kind of close. But nothing is certain. Nothing is guaranteed. Nothing has changed. _

_So, this_ _one-man show in self-loathing that you’re trying to be the star of? This insanity of being disordered and disconcerted with envy over a Boston-based surgeon you’ve never met?_

_Stop it. Just stop._

_And, the fact that you cannot help but be captivated by your intoxicatingly beautiful and unattainable roommate?_ _That you know this is not some fleeting emotion, some search for release of a primal urge, a meaningless fascination…that it’s something more?_

_Well. Guess what? Ignore the fuck out of it._

_Repeat after me:_ _Together but not together. Close but not close._

B.J. blinked slowly. He could still read the conflicted uncertainty lining his face, furrowing his brow, creasing his forehead, tightening his jaw.

_Nothing’s happened. This is all just in your head. Ignore it._

That line repeated on an endless loop as he traced a finger across the stubble beneath his nose. He struggled not to focus on the gold band on his left hand, reflecting brightly back at him in the mirror. It felt heavy, a weight he was so used to that it never occurred to him to notice it before; but now that he was thinking about it—paying attention to the smoothness of the metal, the balance of it on his finger—he couldn’t ignore _that_.

Funny, the things he wanted to ignore and the things he no longer could. B.J. did his best not to dwell on the implications of that thought and resisted the urge to fiddle with his ring.

_Nothing’s happened. This is all just in your head. Ignore it._

_Ignore the severe lack of rhyme or reason, the nonsensical nature of your feelings._

_Ignore the moral conundrum corner you’ve painted yourself into._

_Ignore how you can’t tie a neat little ribbon around your heart and explain the way you feel about Hawkeye..._

It was almost as wild and unpredictable and inexplicable as his decision to grow a mustache. Labeling how he felt about his best friend was a mess he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to dive into, and it was a mess he wasn’t entirely sure he could explicitly _define_.

_God, how did Hawkeye do this to me?_

With all the undeniable pull of an undertow, B.J. found his gaze floating once again over to the sleeping form of his roommate.

Hawkeye was a class act in intoxicated mischief, as sweet and devilish as sin, a walking, talking mess in size ten feet. The suave surgeon confounded him and moved him, crash landing into his life and sending shockwaves off in every direction. How B.J. felt when he was near him was like a jolt of electricity; he was inexplicably drawn by that tousled black hair tinged with grey, that bombastic laugh, those expressive cerulean eyes, and that smile that seemed to be handmade by God himself.

The message his heart was sending him, one that his head couldn’t ignore and didn’t approve of, was one of hope; that someday he’d be as _close_ with Hawkeye as Hawkeye had been with Trapper. Because when the chips were down and his hand dealt, B.J. didn’t think he was reading too far into Hawkeye’s flirtations and actions. He hoped there was, well he _needed_ there to be, something beneath that irresistible smile, behind those intoxicating eyes, and under the guise of that alcohol drenched entertainer.

Maybe, just maybe, they could be _close._

He was irrevocably tangled up, head-over-heels enraptured with Hawkeye Pierce. The same way that a catchy song lyric makes you smile, an exquisite piece of art moves you to tears, or how words from a heart-wrenching poem seem to open your eyes to the painful beauty around you.

As much as he wanted to indulge these fantasies, he knew that he had to stick to his plan.

_Nothing’s happened. This is all just in your head. Ignore it-_

“Gentlemen! And I use that term…loosely.”

Charles waltzed into the Swamp, coffee in hand and nose unsurprisingly upturned, interrupting B.J.’s thoughts. Snapping his gaze away from Hawkeye’s direction, the Californian threw the newly-arrived surgeon a tight smile.

“Morning, Charles.”

The man in question threw a dismissive wave in response. Taking a sip of his coffee, Charles observed Hawkeye’s present state with a scathing scoff.

“Ah, I see the urchin is still asleep. Not that I am surprised, mind you, with the amount he drank last night. He is still breathing, hmm?”

B.J. rolled his eyes as he cinched the belt of his robe a little tighter. He’d hoped to avoid running into Charles this morning, as the surgeon was meant to be in post-op for a few more hours still. Luck, it would seem, was not on the Californian’s side.

Crossing to the far side of his cot, Charles stooped to pick up the book he’d come to retrieve before fixing B.J. with a curious stare.

“I see you’ve missed a spot there, Hunnicutt. Don’t tell me that was intentional!”

The tone of voice set B.J.'s teeth on edge. He didn't think it looked _that_ bad...

With Charles’ self-amused chuckles echoing in his ears, B.J. rubbed at his fledgling mustache and moved to throw his toiletries onto his cot. Sure, he’d wanted a distraction from his thoughts, but _this_. This may just be worse.

Charles strolled back towards the door, still snickering under his breath. He was halfway out before he turned back, a mocking glint in his eye and his grin exuding the habitual snobbery.

“Aha, I see. Well. I might have gone for a scarf or stole first, Hunnicutt. But we all must make our own choices and live with their consequences.”

Using the book to throw a salute from his brow, Charles was gone, the Swamp door slamming back into place.

B.J. sighed, Charles’ final words hitting too close to home.  
  
 _Choices and consequences._

Naturally, Charles had to hit the proverbial nail on the head. _How was he so infuriatingly right all the time?_

Collapsing onto the edge of his cot, the surgeon slumped his head into his hands. Charles had been a semi-welcome respite from his corkscrewing, tumbling-down-the-rabbit-hole thoughts. At least Hawkeye had slept through the entire exchange, if the uninterrupted snoring was any indication.

_Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it._

The incessant mantra was beginning to grate on B.J.’s nerves. But he couldn’t stop, lest the lid he’d managed to keep on this whirlwind inside of him decided to blow off. First, he needed a distraction; second, he needed some way to channel his sea of swirling, churning emotions.

Number one was easy: B.J. decided he’d go find Klinger or Radar. Ask them some questions about this new mustache plan. And then maybe mosey over to post-op, focus his mind on vitals and check-ups and bandages instead of on the emotional oscillations of his heart.

Keep him busy so that ignoring would be just a little bit easier.

But number two…what could he do about that?

Hand on the door, B.J. turned his head slightly to throw one last look at Hawkeye. _Oh, how irresistibly exhilarating that man is._ A strong current pulling him in, a riptide overpowering him.

_What were those last few lines of that Sinatra song, again?_

“ _Someday my happy arms will hold you,_  
 _And someday I'll know that moment divine_  
 _When all the things you are, are mine.”_

Someday.

Maybe.

Maybe he’d tell Hawkeye how he felt.

Maybe this wasn’t all in his head.

Maybe he’d discover Hawkeye wanted to be _close_ , too.

Maybe. Someday.

Until then, he’d stick to his plan. He’d ignore his feelings, hopes, desires. He’d try not to think about Hawkeye…well, think about him as much.

It was as good an idea as any, even if his upper lip was starting to itch a little.

As he stepped out into the warm fall day, B.J. took a deep, grounding breath. Everything around was much calmer that the storm that raged within him. “Ignore it _”_ and “choices and consequences” chided him, pestered him, drowning out any other thoughts in his mind. With the mess tent his destination, he shoved his hands into his pockets, mind fiddling with possible courses of action to resolve problem number two.

B.J.’s fingers brushed against something in his pocket. He pulled it out, brow knit in confusion.

Upon seeing what he held in his hand, B.J. smiled.

_This…this could be it. An incredibly idiotic plan…but, no worse than choosing to grow a mustache._

It would let him release all he had pent up and repressed, help him keep control over that tidal wave of emotions he felt himself drowning under.

A channel, a funnel, a written liberation. He’d have to do it in secret, though. Keep it well hidden, somewhere no one would look or even suspect. It could damn him and much as it could save him.

As he shoved the item back into his pocket, B.J. knew what he was about to do was infinitely stupid, selfish, unbelievable, and reckless. But he wanted to do it, and he’d live with the consequences. Once he got back to the Swamp, and ensured that he was alone, he could set this plan in motion.

All he needed was a paper and pencil. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, it's over. I hope you all liked it! Always appreciate any feedback, comments, or kudos. Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed! Update hopefully coming soon, once I figure out where this is going and how long I plan on making this lol. Thank you for reading, please comment/leave kudos because I'm needy that way (and they are much appreaciated!) (: Peace out Swamp Rats!


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